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The Bugle Song 



OTHER POEMS 






Illustrated 



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BOSTON 
ESTES AND LAURIAT, PUBLISHERS 






Copyright, 1888 
By Estes and Lauriat 



// 



Presswork by John Wilson and Son, 
University Press. 




CONTENTS. 

The Bugle Song ....... Tennyson 

Song of the Spirits over the Waters . Goethe 

A Canadian Boat Song ..... Moore 

Song of the Silent Land ..... Longfelloiv 

Song of the Imprisoned Huntsman . » Scott 



Illustj-atcd and printed undei' the supervision of 
GEORGE T. ANDREW. 




THE BUGLE SONG. 



The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story; 
The long light shakes across the lakes, 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 



O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying ; 
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river ; 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 




OnnL 6F1R1T5 OVLR TUL WATCRS. 





SONG OF THE SPIRITS OVER THE WATERS. 



The soul of man is like to water, 
From Heaven it cometh, 
To Heaven it riseth 

And then returneth to earth 
Forever alternatincr- 



Then foameth brightly, 
In cloud waves rolling 
O'er polished rocks; 
Then tranquil flowing 
It wandereth, hiding, 
Soft murmuring, to depths below it. 
Over crags from the steep projecting 
Falls it all roaring, foaming, steplike, 
Far downward, 
Then level flov/ing 
Creeps to the meadow away 
And in the glassy sea 
Gaze all the planets at their fair faces. 

Wind is to wavelet tenderest lover, 
Wind from the deep tears foam-crested billows, 
Soul of man mortal, how art thou like water ! 
Fate of man mortal, how art thou like wind ! 



Goethe. 





CANADIAN B0AT50NC. 




A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. 



Faintly as tolls the evening chime 
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time, 
Soon as the woods on shore look dim 
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past! 



Why should we yet our sail unfurl? 

There is not a breath the blue wave to curl, 

But when the wind blows off the shore, 

Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 

Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast. 

The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past ! 

Utawa's tide ! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers, — 
Oh, grant us cool heaveps and favoring airs. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast. 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past! 



Moore. 



^50NCiQpfnL 5ILLNT LAND 








SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. 



Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah, who shall lead us thither? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 

Thither, O thither. 

Into the Silent Land? 

Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! tender morning visions 

Of beauteous souls ! the Future's pledge and band t 

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand 

Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land. 

O Land! O Land! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted, 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

To the land of the great Departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 



Longfellow.. 



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AY OnUL IMPR150NL 
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SONG OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN. 



Mv hawk is tired of perch and hood, 
My idle greyhound loathes his food, 
My horse is weary of his stall. 
And I am sick of captive thrall. 
I wish I were as I have been, 
Hunting the hart in forest green, 
With bended bow and bloodhound free, 
For that's the life is meet for me. 



I hate to learn the ebb of time, 
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, 
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, 
Inch after inch, along the wall. 
The lark was wont my matins ring, 
The sable rook my vespers sing; 
These towers, although a king's they be, 
Have not a hall of joy for me. 

No more at dawning morn I rise. 
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes, 
Drive the fleet deer the forest through, 
And homeward wend with evening dew ; 
A blithesome welcome blithely meet. 
And lay my trophies at her feet, 
While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
That life is lost to love and me ! 



